


An Apple Pie and "It's All Fine"

by ConsultingWriter



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, John baking an apple pie, John is a comfort/stress eater, M/M, Post-Reichnbach, Slash if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 12:31:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/622162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsultingWriter/pseuds/ConsultingWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is back from the dead and wants to talk to John. John would rather Sherlock just leave him be for the moment. </p><p>  <i>“You know what?” John snapped, tiredly. “I don’t even care right now, I’m done talking. I’ll let you know when I’m ready to look at your face.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	An Apple Pie and "It's All Fine"

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this because I'm a stress eater, so I understand John's feels, and I was tired of all the fics where John was either sobbingly depressed that Sherlock was back, or enraged that he was alive, so I tried to write a balance of "he's alive and he lied to me, that asshole" and "my bff/lover/thing is alive!"

John slammed the door roughly behind him and marched toward the kitchen only to pause half way there before turning around and making his way towards the couch, eyeing it thoughtfully. Finally—with a nod to himself—he grabbed one arm and tugged, wincing at the sound of the couch’s legs scrapping against the floor, dragging it slowly to the door. With one last huff he pulled, sliding the couch to rest right in front of the door, and pushed it right up against the wall. Sherlock—that bastard—could pick locks but John would be damned if the former ( _back from the dead!_ ) detective was getting past the couch and into their— **his!** John reminded himself firmly—flat.

With a grim smile John made his way back to the kitchen, walked over to the oven—which had been replaced since Sherlock had left, everything in the kitchen had, besides the fridge;  John just didn’t know what had been biohazard-ly contaminated and what hadn’t—and pulled it open, eyeing the pie inside cautiously. American style apple pie—his mouth watered slightly at the thought. He frowned slightly when he looked upon the pie, the brown sugar-cinnamon crumble was browning nicely, but the crust itself hadn’t reached that lovely golden color yet, he wondered briefly if he should lower the heat and keep it in a little longer.

The door knob rattling distracted him, however, before he could decide on a permanent course of action. John froze, unconsciously holding his breath, that had better not be who he thought it was. He almost sighed in relief when the rattling stopped.

His frowned deepened when a light, distantly familiar, scratching sound could be heard from the other side of the door. That dick! That absolute dick was trying to pick his lock! After John had told Sherlock to leave him be, and that he’d talk to the dark haired man when he was ready to. The blonde doctor smirked when the locked clicked open only from the door to be jammed by the couch. It made him feel oddly satisfied to know that the once dead detective wouldn’t be getting into 221B until John allowed it.

“John!” that deep, baritone voice—the one that the doctor had never imagined ever hearing again—called out, “John! Stop being childish!”

John snorted, childish? He was the childish one?!? And even with he was behaving like a child, it was his damned right! He could act however the hell he wanted at the moment!

 “Fuck you, Sherlock!” He called back, turning back to the oven to pull his pie out; he had a feeling he was going to need it in a minuet, after this conversation—a conversation which would be held as it was right then, with a door between Sherlock and himself.

“John, really,” the voice huffed, tinged with annoyance—well fuck him, that dark haired bastard didn’t have any right to be annoyed with him—and something unidentifiable… pleading, maybe (but that couldn’t be it, Sherlock would never do something like plead or beg). “Stop being so immature and open the door so we can talk.”

“That’s rich coming from you, you dick. Where were you the past few years, when I wanted to talk to you after that damned suicide-note-phone call? Hmm?” John snapped “Oh! I know! You were gallivanting around the world with Irene-Fucking-Adler!”

There was shocked silence on the other side of the door. “You know that she’s still alive?” The twinge of disbelief in the detective’s voice rankled John more than anything, more than the fact that Sherlock was avoiding the question, or deemed it unimportant to answer or whatever was going through the man’s large brain.

“I’m not an idiot, no matter what you think, I knew from the moment you walked out the door that you were headed to Pakistan, or where ever Mycroft had arranged, to save her.” And didn’t saying it out loud like that just burn him something fierce, like pour salt in an old would.

“John, I—,” Sherlock started, but John cut him off.

“You know what?” John snapped, tiredly. “I don’t even care right now, I’m done talking. I’ll let you know when I’m ready to look at your face.”

Feeling slightly like a coward—which he wasn’t… He wasn’t running away, just strategically retreating until he was strong enough to return to battle (which he wasn’t right then, he was falling apart at the seams with grief and a roaring rage)—he moved to the cabinet to retrieve a spoon for himself.

“I will not!” Sherlock roared. “You will listen to me, John Hamish Watson, and I’m not leaving until you do!”

John groaned tiredly, what a stubborn man; but John supposed he already knew that. He sighed, fine, if Sherlock didn’t get it when he said it, maybe he would understand it in another way.

With a soldier’s stride he made his way to his open laptop and quickly—well, as quickly as he could while pecking at the keyboard—typed in the name of the song he was looking for; it was one that he remembered hearing all the time a few years ago, it was immensely popular, though he never understood why…. It was kind of childish (right now, though, he did understand, he knew exactly why the song was so popular it wrapped up what he was trying to say quite nicely).

_“I've been waiting all day for ya babe, so won't cha come and sit and talk to me….”_

Turning the volume up as loud as it would go to drown out the talking detective John walked straight over to the freezer and pulled out a tub of vanilla ice cream. The pie by itself wasn’t going to be enough; it was time to bring out the big guns.

_“Get out, **leave** , right now. It's the end of you and me it's too late, **now** , and I can't wait for you to be gone, 'cause I know about her **who** and I wonder, **why** , how I bought all the lies. You said that you would treat me right but you was just a waste of time”_

John sang along with the chorus, emphasizing some of the words along with the song, viciously digging his spoon into the ice cream as he did. The rest of the song was mumbled in between spoonfuls of ice cream toped pie bites.

The doctor sighed to himself as the song ended and he was left in silence. He supposed Sherlock had left then, which had him feeling a mix depressed (the younger man had left him once again) and satisfied (because that’s what he’d wanted in the first place, for the man to leave).

It wasn’t fair. Sherlock had died. Had jumped off a building with John watching and died. John had buried him, had mourned him, had struggled to get up day after day without him, and the bastard had been alive the entire time. The bastard had been alive and had been waltzing his way around the world with Irene Adler. He didn’t trust John enough to tell him his plan, or come and get him afterwards to take the doctor with him. No. He’d gotten _Molly Hooper_ to help him fake his death and deepened on Mycroft to help in tracking the people he was hunting down, and he’d _trusted Irene Adler_ to help him eliminate the threats, but he couldn’t even trust John enough to _fucking tell him he was alive_. And he couldn’t even bring himself to truly be upset at Sherlock for lying to him and putting him through hell because John was just so glad that the detective wasn’t really dead—that John’s wishes and prayers and been answered.

He took another large bite of pie before looking down and frowning. He knew it wasn’t a good idea but he couldn’t help it, he took another bite. And another. And another, until the pie was over half way gone, and the tub of ice cream more so, but he knew he wouldn’t stop, and that was the issue.

John Watson, M.D., army doctor, and former Captain, was a stress eater. Not physical stress, he handled life and death operations and being shot at with a steady hand and a determined face. No, he was an emotional stress eater, whenever his emotions got the better of him, there was little to no stopping him. He’d gained almost a stone the week after the first time he’d found Harry almost dead from alcohol poisoning, and he gained two in the month after his mother had died. He really didn’t want to know what Sherlock’s return would do to him, he’d only just managed to finish working off the weight he’d gained in the first seven or eight months after Sherlock jumped.

He frowned and put the spoon down. No, he wouldn’t that that to himself again. He wouldn’t let Sherlock do that to him, the selfish, childish bastard didn’t have the right.

The floorboards outside the door creaked and John stilled, there was a heavy sigh from the other side of the door and the creaking stopped, as if whoever was outside the flat (though John didn’t have to think very hard to guess who it was) had just been adjusting their position.

“John?” It was soft and hesitant and John sighed.

“Yeah, Sherlock?”

“I—is, did you make pie?”

John chuckled. “Yeah, Sherlock.”

“Oh,” there was a pause then a hesitant, “Can I have some?” It was so child-like that John didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He sat there a moment before pushing himself away from the table.

“Yeah, Sherlock,” he repeated for the final before pushing the couch back out of the way and opening the door slowly. He blinked when he looked at the detective—who was both skinnier and paler then he was before his fall—and held back an affectionate grin. The man was sitting on the floor in front of the door, knees drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped around his legs and chin resting on his bended knees.

John gave up his fight fairly quickly and smiled slightly and the innocent looking detective.

“I missed you so fucking much.”

John blinked again in surprise, that’s what he had been thinking, but he wasn’t the one who said it out loud. He dropped to his knees heavily and wrapped gently shaking arms around the man in front of him.

“You’ll never know how much I missed you, Sherlock.” He whispered. “Never.” John repeated firmly as he pulled back to look into those pale eyes.

Finally the doctor said, pulling away from the other man. “Come on, let’s get you fed. You’re absolutely emaciated .”

“Pie first,” Sherlock demanded imperiously, striding through the door ahead of John and straight to the kitchen.

“Okay,” John said simply, following after the detective. He supposed that was fine. He supposed it was all fine.  He supposed, that maybe, _they_ were all fine.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Ta-Da! Please let me know what you think. It's kind of discouraging when you see people reading your fics but not having anyone tell you what they thought.


End file.
